


Breaking Continuity

by Harutemu



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Robogore, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harutemu/pseuds/Harutemu
Summary: Through the most absurd way possible, the briefcase is sent flying, straight towards himself. The world stretches, contorts, then folds around him. When he awakens, he’s trapped. Trapped in the body of a younger more foolish self.
Relationships: Prowl/Scrapper
Comments: 38
Kudos: 85





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Italics: Alternate Prowl  
> (parentheses): memory

It wasn’t the sudden, yawning agony in his spark that caused the crash, as his spark chamber was suddenly housing two. Nor was it the sheer amount of information suddenly streaming into his memory banks, as a second, longer lifetime manifested and grappled for supremacy of his conscious, for his very being. 

No, it was knowing that it was himself that strove to override everything that made him himself, it was fighting the invisible stranglehold on his spark even as memories of things that had happened- and things that were yet to do so- played behind his optics.

Mistakes were made that seemed obvious, lines were pushed further and further before being left behind in the sand. It was seeing himself lose faith- in everything and everyone. It was seeing himself become the sparkless computer everyone else had whispered he was, any means justified by the end result. It was seeing himself stop mourning the cost paid in lives and energon. It was finally seeing peace- and seeing it as another, more insidious battlefront.

It hurt, in every meaning of the word. The memories, the pressure against his spark, trying to smother him, consume him.

His HUD suddenly dumped the multitude of errors as quickly as they had sprung up, flashing a last system warning before going dark, his awareness taken with his sight.

Prowl’s return to consciousness was slow and painful, his tacnet struggling with the inconsistencies in data- in his memory. His spark chamber still hurt, though now a more manageable ache. A pain blocker and an update in his permissions log signed by Ratchet placed him in the small medbay on Earth. The soft beep of monitors when his hearing returned only confirmed it.

_Your continued presence is inconvenient._

Motors freezing, Prowl tried to locate the voice, even as alien memories swam through his mind, circling around a blue and white flyer grinning proudly behind an orange facemask (Brainstorm. A double agent? The Lost Light?) and an equally orange briefcase that was apparently the remains of a time machine.

_Yes. Extremely inconvenient._ (Through the most absurd way possible, the briefcase is sent flying, straight towards himself. The world stretches, contorts, then folds around him. When he awakens, he’s trapped. Trapped in the body of a younger more foolish self. Sharing a body must be the current continuities way of dealing with the paradox of two-)

“Prowl!” Hands are suddenly on him, the shock mentally pulling him away from the smothering presence looming over him. Sound that had faded with his consciousness snapped into focus, an alarm nearby shrieking. Pain immediately followed on its heels.

His fans ached sharply, already redlining to cool his dangerously overheated spark crystal. It was only the sudden flow of fresh coolant through abused lines that offered relief.

Unshuttering his optics sluggishly, Prowl looked up into the stressed pale optics of Ratchet.

“You back with us Prowl?” the Medic asked, already cupping his face in order to pull a shutter completely open. A micro light transformed from his digit, shining straight into Prowl’s already light sensitive optic. “There you are” Ratchet murmured with relief.

Grumbling subvocally, Prowl tried to turn his helm to the side and batted weakly at the light, his limbs heavy and slow. 

“Regrettably” he squinted up at Ratchet. Further complaint was cut off by a hiss of irritation as Ratchet took the chance to shine the light into Prowl’s other optic. Scowling, Prowl swatted the medic’s hands away from his face with a rasping demand of “Enough”.

“It’ll be enough when I say its enough. Do you know how worried we were? You shorted out in the middle of your shift, no rhyme or reason.. And do you know why? Because your fragging spark doubled in size! So until I figure out why, you’re confined to berth rest. That. Means. Stay. In. The. Berth.” Ratchet punctuated every abrupt word with a jab to the middle of Prowl’s bumper as he tried to get up, pushing him back down.

“I’ll magnetize your stubborn aft to it, so help me Prowl.” Ratchet shook a digit in warning, ignoring the glare Prowl leveled after him.

Funneling his bewilderment into further irritation Prowl checked his chronometer, reflexively opening his comm to demand the remainder of the days work be sent down on a data pad. 

His comms shrieked with momentary interference before shutting down, the alien memories invoked by Ratchet’s appearance turned inward, stabbing into his mind. 

_This Would be a day cataclysmic enough for the time machine to zero in on._

“Shut up, shut up, stop talking” Prowl hissed furiously under his breath, denying both the presence and the memories. Not Spike, he would never, never. . . (Never trusted you to start, Prowl. How could I? You aren’t human.)

_He would and did. And with Scrapper dead, with Tumbler’s betrayal, your fate is sealed when Bombshell sets his sight on you._

“I Said Shut Up” he roared.

“I’m warning you Prowl!” Ratchet’s short tempered call rang out from the office.

It couldn’t be true. None of it, Prowl thought furiously, yanking medical cords out of his diagnostic port to the unhappy wail of flatlining machinery. Ignoring the voice, fake, it had to be fake, ignoring Ratchet and the security staff stupid enough to stand in his way, Prowl shoved his way out of their base. Folding into altmode and squealing out onto the road, he could only think he’d made the right choice, his mind quiet and still for the first time since waking in the medbay.

It would be fine. No one knew where Scrapper even was, the junkyard would be empty, and Spike would be his same trusted if incorrigible self as always.


	2. 2

It took all of Prowl’s self control to not gun his engine, the black and white that let him pass through human traffic in the past was well known to Skywatch’s satellites. A paranoid thought perhaps as there were many enforcer vehicles of the same make and model cruising the streets, but Prowl was unable to stop himself from wondering.

Wonder at what his own fate would have been if he hadn’t been broken out of Skywatch’s holding before their ‘alliance’. Wonder how the humans had planned to stop a fired turret if he hadn’t outed himself when Breakdown was in their crosshairs.

A decepticon the sports car might have been, no Cybertronian deserved to be murdered by aliens, their corpse made a puppet. And Spike himself had already demonstrated no qualm using a living mech as a vehicle to joyride around in. What was there to say that Ironhide’s frame would have met a similar fate if left behind?

For all that Prowl acknowledged the mounting irrationality of his thoughts, they still made too much sense. Could he really trust himself and these feelings? Could he afford not to, with impossible memories raking their claws through his processor?

The thought that at this very moment at their current base, Ratchet was giving the Skywatch agents a detailed examination of cybertronian biology had his fuel pump clenching.

He would wait for Spike. There was only one industrial site large and private enough to fit the flashes of memory. He’d stake it out the way he would when he was still undercover among the humans and either prove the memories to be true, or prove them to be false. Perhaps he too needed to step down. Perhaps Optimus’ abandonment had been the best course in a war that had worn them all down.

Prowl arrived at the site long before night did, the time that Spike would likely approach. The giant piles of disturbed earth proved easy cover, the workers having already started leaving for the evening.

As the planet’s sun hung orange over the horizon, the air buzzing quietly with local fauna, Prowl found himself at odds with the tranquility of his surroundings. Underwhelmed, he shifted his breaks and parked, settling in to wait. His plating ticked quietly in the evening air as the sky darkened until the only remaining lights were the light towers ringing the site and the stars above. 

Once he was sure the site was empty Prowl felt some of the tension in his cables release and he passed the next few hours silently waiting for whatever was to come. He was almost grateful for his growing apprehension over the fate awaiting his return to base. Anything was better than the future he’d seen.

After another hour Prowl finally allowed himself to transform back to root-mode and carefully scouted the site’s perimeter, finding no trace of Scrapper or Spike. Still, he wasn’t sloppy. He treated his self imposed mission as seriously as any other he’d issued, pausing in the shadow of a half built structure as the low drone of a motorcycle rose from the opposite end of the site.

It could be Spike, Prowl considered. Though it could just as likely been an overcharged human civilian joyriding outside city limits. Regardless, caution was still needed. As quietly as his name implied, Prowl made his way to where he’d last heard the bike’s motor.

He’d neared the edge of the construction site when chaos erupted, blaster fire spitting on the heels of an outraged shout. Ignoring the flashing after images burned into his optical feed, Prowl reached for his own weapon, cursing himself and Ratchet when his subspace came up empty.

The battle ended before he took another step. Metallic thunder cut through the blaster fire, the ringing of rebar against pavement trailed off as quickly as the sound came.

Fighting the sudden dread pressing heavily at his spark, Prowl made his way towards the sound quickly, the echo of a familiar voice a beacon in the dark.

“You Constructicons aren’t very smart all on your own, are you?” 

Prowl’s spark twisted and he nearly staggered. Some part of him had not believed the wild visions, had hoped it was all a nightmare, a memory flux brought on by some odd Earth malware. Anything but the reality of Spike once more standing over a fallen Cybertronian.

The only difference being that Scrapper was in far more dire straits then Breakdown- and that Spike couldn’t possibly know he was here.

“No tactical understanding of your environment,” Spike continued dispassionately. “No time to even really aim. You think you’ll get by on just brute strength.” Scrapper’s response was a crackle of static as he grasped futility at the heavy beam impaling his midsection. It wasn’t the only rebar to strike true, a shoulder joint and a thigh pierced through, sparking angrily. 

Spike circled the fallen mech, resting his foot on his side and pressing down with his boot before climbing up, using the rebar to balance himself. Scrapper’s vocals shrieked with feed back and his wounds sparked angrly in response. 

“You know why I did this tonight, no backup? Because I wanted to Show you,” Spike hissed, peering around the rebar a hairs width from the mech’s spark chamber, looking down at the smoking, acid ruined face below.

“I wanted to show you that One of us can beat you. No lasers, none of your technology. Just a solution that can be made out of stuff anyone would have in their kitchen.” The human stood now on Scrapper’s chest and from his own vantage point Prowl could see where Scrapper's blast-mask had been eaten away, down to the damaged protoform and the shattered, yellow scoped optic.

“You don’t stand a chance here, you never did.” Spike snarled, his boot pressing into the mech’s throat as he leaned down to look straight into Scrapper’s ruined face.

Vocals blatting static as they struggled under the weight of Spike’s boot finally finished rebooting. 

“I. . . I surrender. Put . . . Suppressors on. I’ll go willingly” Scrapper crackled feebly, smoke rising faster from his face with every word.

“You Surrender? You have no idea why I’m really here, do you?” Spike’s sneer glinted coldly in the light of growing electrical fire rising from Scrapper’s wounds. Going expressionless, Spike stepped off of Scrapper and the mech’s gaze followed him helplessly with his half blinded optic.

“Three years ago, May 29. You remember that? Did you even bother to Learn the human calendar”, Spike wondered aloud to himself as he circled around Scrapper. Quickly enough Prowl could see his trajectory, what had to be Scrapper’s blaster, well beyond the pinned mech’s reach.

“Tim Simmons, the bravest soldier I ever knew. He was in Manhattan, right in the thick of it. Getting people off the island, taking them under the river, through the channels. Until you and your friends showed up.” Speaking more to himself, Spike picked the blaster up with surprising ease, patting the weapon thoughtfully. 

“Since then I’ve seen another one of you “combiner” types. It’s terrifying, the power is almost uncontrollable” the human turned his attention back to Scrapper, the barrel unwaveringly aimed at the mech’s helm. 

“So I decided then I had to take you off the board, not just for Tim but—” Prowl hit the human full force from behind, his hands grasping Spike’s arms even as Prowl made sure to land taking all his weight to his knees as he kneeled over the stunned man. 

Spike immediatly started cursing and thrashing, screaming in rage when he realized it was Prowl pinning his arms behind him and trying to writhe his way free, his entire body seemingly reaching for the blaster that had slid out of reach. 

Spark squirming frantically in its chamber, Prowl quickly commed their communication network, remembering halfway through the frequency that whoever responded would very likely be monitored. 

Luckily perhaps, Bluestreak was the one to respond.

“Prowl. You’re in a lot of trouble, so, so, much trouble” the other mech quickly dropped his voice when he realized who had called. “Ultra Magnus is talking about charging you with *abandoning your post and that’s if you’re lucky. And Ratchet.” Bluestreak cringed and dropped his voice even lower, “Ratchet is threatening to rip your sensor panels off and turn them into filing cabinets.”

“He can have them.” Prowl gasped, the pain in his spark suddenly sharp and terrible. “Just send him to my coordinates, Op- Bumblebee too.” He corrected hurriedly, hissing in pain and trying to ignore the visions once more playing out behind his optics. “Tell them it’s a medical emergency- and that we’ll need to vacate the Skywatch base immediately.”

“But Prowl—”.

“Immediately Bluestreak.” Prowl snapped, “I have a mech here well on his way to spark failure.” Before Bluestreak could protest again, Prowl sent him the coordinates and ended the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not at all expecting the interest this story received. I didn't have plans for this to have more then three chapters, but now. . . Well, you'll see. Thank you so much everyone that commented or gave me kudos!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics: Alternate Prowl  
> (parentheses): memory

The time between Prowl’s call and Ratchet’s arrival seemed to drag on. Spike had only tried talking his way free once, as Prowl tied the man to a pole jutting from the ground. Even then halfway through his attempt at making his actions seem reasonable he broke down and started insulting Prowl.

“I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath. You’re the one that blew your cover for an enemy combatant. No matter how buddy-buddy the rest of you act, no matter how sorry your boss is, in the end the bunch of you will always choose another alien over the race you screwed over. “

“I suppose that is one thing we have in common then,” was Prowl’s cold reply as he clinically slid a digit between the chain he’s found and Spike’s shirt, making sure the binding would hold but not cut off circulation or cause other damage. That done he secured the chain with a pair of suppressors found on Spike’s person. Perhaps it wouldn’t stop the man the way it would a mechanism but it would at least keep the make-shift restraint in place. 

That done, he headed to Scrapper hoping Ratchet hadn’t taken his emergency med kit when he’d emptied his subspace. 

No such luck, of course. Not that Prowl’s field kit would have been much help in the face of Scrapper’s injury. 

“Come to finish the job?” The Constructicon’s voice crackled, his exposed optic attempting to fix on Prowl through the gas rising from his half ruined face. (The slagged remains of protoform had been the only thing Prowl could find. Was there more to Megatron’s accusations against their human allies after all. . .?)

Ignoring the uncomfortable pulsing of his spark and the images superimposed upon his memory, Prowl categorized Scrapper’s injuries worst to least, his response distracted as he did so.

“You don’t seem to need the help. Close your vents if you want to last long enough for help to arrive. You are feeding a number of electrical fires, if you were not aware.” 

A short, harsh bark met Prowl’s words, a laugh he realized as Scrapper’s laboring vents attempted to shut. “Like it’ll make much difference either way, Autobot. This human slag is burning it’s way through my protoform, if you weren’t aware. . . I’ve already lost all optical feed on my right side.”

He had, too, Prowl realized. The yellow glow glinting behind the destroyed visor was the reflection of Prowl’s own headlights on shattered glass, not the light of an online optic.

“Wait a moment, I’ll be right back” Prowl assured swiftly, turning to search for something, anything to rinse the acid away, ignoring the sullen “Where would I go anyway?” behind him.

It didn’t take long to find a mobile water tank, the trailer small enough that Prowl could pull it with ease. He just hoped that there was enough water to provide aid, the surrounding ground still damp from the constant fight against the site’s rising dust.

“I’ll never get you Autobots. I’m not mixing my door-wingers up right? You Are part of Hot Rod- Sorry, I meant Rodimus Prime’s band of sorry tag alongs, right? The same sorry bunch we double-crossed just last week. Right? And you’re Prowl, Optimus Prime’s on-and-off again Second in Command. What are you getting out of this? Why waste the time and resources.”

“And if I remember correctly, you were also left behind last week,” Prowl said irritably, flipping the tank’s power on and adjusting the water pressure. “Anything that could be said about Hot Rod being foolish enough to trust Swindle could also be said about you and every Stunticon that followed him.”

“Like trusting Rodimus Prime was any better-” Scrapper was cut off as Prowl roughly cupped the damaged side of his face, his thumb digging into the Constructicon’s chin so the startled mech couldn’t flinch away, as well as also cutting off the damning truth.

“Regardless, that is between us as Cybertronians, as Autobots and Decepticons,” Prowl bullied on, the gentle cleansing of the wound at odds with his punishing grip.

“It’s different.” Prowl trailed off, his hold while still firm, easing when Scrapper made no motion to move out of the water. “The thought of dying so far from Cybertron, on this organic rock at the hands of aliens that don’t see us as sapient beings. That see us as machines to be cut apart and used. No one deserves that.”

Even with his good optic obscured behind the remains of his visor, it was obvious that Scrapper was studying him as he spoke. Feeling oddly exposed, Prowl fought the instinct to look away even as his spark squirming anew in his chassis. It was still unnerving, the memory- the other Prowl’s memory of Scrapper had hung over him- them? For so long. Now looking down at the other mech it felt like Prowl could grasp the shape of the void left behind by this mech’s death.

Prowl’s spark twisted, hot and uncomfortable, different then the feeling he’d come to associate with his other spark. His fingers tingled where they met the Constructicon’s protoform, easy enough to blame on the diluting acid if not for the fact that everywhere his plating met with Scrappers, the precursory nip of growing charge followed suit.

Fighting back a grimace Prowl briskly cleaned the remaining acid, tilting Scrapper’s head towards himself to carefully rinse beneath his optic, pointedly not filling the silence that stretched between them.

Apparently the quiet was more than the other mech could stand, if the awkward resetting of his vox was anything to go by. However whatever Scrapper was about to say was lost from the sudden squeal of feedback and a sudden pop as a shower of sparks burst from his damaged helm vent.

Scrapper’s free hand flew up as if to hold the damaged area, and met Prowl’s plating instead, immediately grasping onto it desperately. 

Pulling his attention from the dusty purple hand digging into his thigh, Prowl turned his attention back to the suffering Constructicon’s helm.

“It seems the acid has already breached your ventilation. Does this open?” Prowl tapped the silver blast mask that protected the lower half of Scrapper’s face.

After visibly struggling, Scrapper’s voice returned with the quiet buzz of static.

“Afraid not, Autobot. Not everyone is constructed with a pretty face. The most I can do is open my fuel intake.”

“Then until help arrives we need to keep your helm tilted to slow the spreading damage,” Prowl turned Scrapper’s face so that the damaged side faced the ground, ignoring the diluted acid dripping down his fingers.

(Hook stares down at him, his face tight with displeasure as he reaches under his jaw, a blunt finger scraping along a too small seam until it catches. A thumb prods under his chin and with a click plating swings away.)

_What-?_

With detached curiosity Prowl ignores the voice and instead traces the pathway of the memory’s finger, half surprised when he finds the small latch under Scrapper’s helm vent. The Constructicon eyes him with uncertainty, as best as he can with half a functioning face. “Whoa there Autobot, getting kind of handsy aren’t you? Not exactly the bedside manner I was expecting.”

_That’s not-_

Scrapper tries to come off as salacious but it’s ruined when he tries to turn his head from Prowl’s grasp. Prowl ignores him and is already pressing the indent under his chin. 

The side of the blast mask under Scrapper’s ruined optic swings open, exposing a faceplate that consisted mainly of naked wiring and a small, inflexible fuel intake. Prowl’s attention however was on the smudge of bubbling slag sliding further down Scrapper’s face.

_Where did that memory come from!?_

Prowl tried to find some comfort in the other spark’s angry bewilderment even as he rinsed the visible acid damage on Scrapper’s face, careful to steer clear of his shattered optic. 

“I’ll take you out for dinner later if it means you’ll stop squirming” Prowl grumbled, earning himself a pained bark of laughter from the Constructicon. 

“Ha- How did you know- ow, fragger, stop making me laugh! How did you know how to open that?”

“You're not the only mech with a blast mask.” 

While his words were true, perhaps that hadn’t been the best misdirection as Scrapper’s remaining optic cycled visibly in consideration behind his visor and images of Chromedome bubbled up rapidly in his consciousness. 

“What’re you doing behind a mech’s blast mask?” The question was somehow both thoughtful and lewd at once.

“Nothing anywhere near what you are thinking” the visual that flashed behind Prowl’s optics unbidden- himself leaning in to lap at the narrow intake of an indistinctive stranger- had his doorwings rising with disgust. 

_What. Was. That._

Though he didn’t laugh this time, Scrapper’s amusement was evident even with faceplates that couldn’t emote.

The other spark suddenly was bearing down on his own with fury, clawing and searching though Prowl’s being.

_It’s Him. How?! How is he here?_

Even as the presence tore into him, memories rose up once again. Memories of when the other spark replaced Scrapper. As a component of Devastator his spark was grappled and clung to by five others, slowly assimilated much the way that spark now raced to do to Prowl’s own.

Distantly Prowl heard Scrapper say something, felt the grip on his thigh tighten. 

Suddenly his spark spasmed, contracted, and then was utterly restricted from the outside, as if grabbed by a giant first. Yet the other spark felt cut off, its presence slowly growing distant despite the unwavering grip on his spark.

Prowl became aware of his frame, his vents heaving and his helm bowed. Lifting it seemed to tax him, every movement sent starbursts of agony racing through his chassis. 

“What the Pit was that?”( _What the Pit was that?_ ) 

Prowl found his gaze drawn to Scrapper’s as the Constructicon's question echoed though his spark, his mind racing at the implication.

“You’re fragging joking” Scrapper hissed, his remaining optic flaring. 

Shutting his own optics to fight the strange double vision of his own face flashing through his mind, Prowl sighed.

“Close your vents, you’re still an electrical fire hazard.”


End file.
